Home to You
by that is secret
Summary: Based on "1916". Paul has returned from Ireland; what will he decide about his relationship with Kathleen? And what will Kathleen think?
1. Leaving Ireland

Chapter 1:  
  
A/N: Another fic from Morgan Llywelyn's "1916." If you have not read this. . . read it. Read "1921" too. Actually, read everything she's ever written. She's a wonderful author.  
  
This story is set after "1916" and before "1921." Paul is actually Father Paul O'Shaughnessy, an Irish-American priest. Kathleen is Irish, married to an American and living in America. The rest you should be able to figure out. ^_^  
  
  
  
Paul eyed the waves. The ocean seemed forlorn, with its great rolling slate- colored waves and white foam. Mists rose and obscured the view of the horizon; Ireland behind him, the ocean and America before him.  
  
Kathleen before him. Yet, at the same time, she was back there, on the Irish coast. The visit to Ireland had done nothing but make him want her more; to him, Ireland was her face, her voice, her tears.  
  
He shook his head. If he didn't stop thinking now, he'd soon have steam coming out his ears to join the fog.  
  
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was always the first thing to spring to his mind. Always. Paul shook his head again, and then leaned over the rail. He felt like throwing up.  
  
"Father, are you alright?" A young man paused beside him. "You look ill."  
  
Paul gave him a weak smile. "I've still to get my sea-legs," he said. Actually, he had his sea-legs; sailing had never given him any problems. It was. . . other problems that made his face appear white and drawn, and gave him the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Really, it was just one problem.  
  
Kathleen.  
  
"Are you sure? Maybe you ought to go below decks and sleep," the young man continued.  
  
"No, really, I'm fine. I just need a little fresh air, that's all." He silently wished the fellow away. He had no intention of carrying on a conversation with a stranger.  
  
"Alright, Father. Good-bye." The man tilted his cap and walked off. Paul sighed with relief and looked out over the water again. The spray felt good on his face, with its salty tang and sharp smell. He stood there for several minutes, luxuriating in the water wetting his face, mind blank. Then a vision of her came into his mind again, and he cursed.  
  
He cursed her move to America. Cursed whatever it was that had made him befriend a lonely young Irish girl. Cursed the husband who treated her so poorly, who abused her. He cursed the white collar around his neck, a symbol of the vow he'd made so long ago. He cursed his mother, who'd pushed him to this vocation. Cursed the church and his place in it, and almost everything under the sun, including himself.  
  
But however hard he tried, he couldn't curse her. She meant too much to him. 


	2. Leaving the Rectory

A/N: Rather dialogue-heavy - sorry! I don't know why I did that, considering how my dialogue goes. I hope it's passable.  
  
  
  
He sat down in the chair. It felt surprisingly good to be back at the rectory, on familiar territory.  
  
That, of course, was until the familiar face of Mrs. Flanagan appeared.  
  
"Good day, Father!" the housekeeper said. Paul groaned inwardly, but kept a smile on his face.  
  
"Hello, Mrs. Flanagan." He hoped she would just go away.  
  
Again, Paul was surprised. "The bishop wants to speak to you. He's already here - he wanted to talk to you right away." Mrs. Flanagan then left Paul to an even greater terror.  
  
"Damn it all. . ." he muttered.  
  
"Damn what?" said a voice. Paul flinched. Wonderful, now the bishop had caught him swearing. . .  
  
"I'm sorry, your Excellency."  
  
The bishop nodded. "Welcome back to America, Father." He then began to ask questions.  
  
Paul answered them all, from details about Donovan O'Rossa's funeral and the trip on the boat to his account of the Easter Uprising. Then the bishop asked the question he knew would come:  
  
"And what about the woman?"  
  
Paul winced. "Yes?"  
  
"Have you given the matter any thought?"  
  
*Have I given it any thought. . . If I gave it any more thought I'd never think about anything else.*  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And your decision is?" The bishop stared straight at him.  
  
"I haven't decided anything yet. I. . ." he trailed off.  
  
"You will have to, you know. Do you want to stay in the church or leave it?" The bishop's voice clearly betrayed his opinion. Paul just nodded.  
  
"Soon." With that, the bishop left him.  
  
He sat there. Then he lowered his head into his hands. "Damn it all again."  
  
"What did you say, Father O'Shaughnessy?" Mrs. Flanagan's voice broke into his misery as she whisked in with a duster.  
  
"I said 'damn it all again.' " He didn't bother to look up. He knew exactly what look would be on the housekeeper's face.  
  
"Father-"  
  
"I have to go out now and to talk to someone. I'll be back." He went to his room to change. He didn't hear Mrs. Flanagan scolding him or see her wagging the duster at him. 


	3. Leaving the Past Behind

A/N: Hmm, I wonder where *this* chapter is headed. Warning: terribly waffy at the end. Someone kill me now?  
  
  
  
He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the house. He was caught between going up and ringing the doorbell and running away. If he put it off until tomorrow, he could go back to the rectory for in time for tea.  
  
However, he knew that if he didn't do it now, he never would, so he went up to ring the bell.  
  
The look the maid gave him made him shake. "M-may I speak to Mrs. Campbell?" he asked, a little afraid of her stare.  
  
"I'll see if the missus is in," she said coolly. Before she could turn, someone spoke from behind her.  
  
Kathleen's voice.  
  
"Who is it?" she asked. Then she saw Paul. Her jaw dropped, and they stared at each other for a minute. The maid, obviously uncomfortable, left.  
  
"Come in." Paul did so, and Kathleen closed the door behind him.  
  
"I need to talk to you." He found no use in waiting. "I-"  
  
"Wait a minute," Kathleen said. "There's no need to talk in the hall. Come and sit down and have some tea. Alexander's at work."  
  
Paul thanked God for that. He hated the man. He found Alexander Campbell to be one of the most vile, awful creatures on earth. He watched Kathleen walk away to get tea. That man had hurt her, hurt that beautiful woman.  
  
Hurt the woman he loved.  
  
He bristled at the thought.  
  
"Here, Paul," Kathleen called several minutes later, motioning him into the sitting room. She held a tray of tea in her hands.  
  
*There's a good start. . . she didn't call me 'Father,'* he thought to himself. He followed her into the room. They sat down, several feet between them. Paul felt the tension in the room, felt it swirling and hot and thick like putty. He sipped the tea.  
  
"Anyways," Kathleen said, eyes glued to the floor, "how was Ireland?"  
  
"Good." He paused. "I saw Ned." Kathleen's eyes snapped up from the floor to his face. He trembled slightly under her gaze.  
  
"How is he?" Her voice was urgent.  
  
"He seemed fine. I met him in a pub before the Uprising." A wry smile screwed across Paul's face. What a conversation that had been. He remembered the misery they had shared quite well.  
  
"The Uprising. . .?"  
  
"Well, he was captured and taken to Kilmainham Jail."  
  
Kathleen covered her face with her hands and muttered to herself.  
  
"They got him out."  
  
"What?"  
  
"They got him out. I was working as pastor there - a friend of his came for him. A journalist, he was, name of Henry Mooney; said Ned was a fellow journalist and showed them Ned's press pass."  
  
Kathleen breathed a sigh of relief. "Was he hurt?"  
  
Paul tapped his head. "He was rapped on the head somehow, and had a pretty bad concussion."  
  
"Dear God, Ned! I told him not to do anything rash, and he mixes himself up in this." Her tone belied her words. Paul knew she was proud of her little brother, and it showed.  
  
"Well, he should be alright now. He'll be in hiding for a while, and then you should be getting another letter from him." Paul tried to be as soothing as possible. He really oughtn't have said anything about Ned. What he came to say was bad enough - he didn't need to upset Kathleen any more.  
  
"Anyways," she said. She refilled her cup. "Was there anything else you came to say?"  
  
*You had to ask, didn't you? Damn.*  
  
What he said aloud was, "As a matter of fact, yes." He wanted for Kathleen to say something in response. She merely gave him the look that said, *spit it out.*  
  
"I- This is hard to say. Um. . ." He paused again. "I. . ."  
  
"Paul. Say it." He looked up at her, and then looked down at his sweaty palms. His heart was racing; felt as if it were a peg shoved into a hole two sizes too small.  
  
"I've been thinking about leaving the church." He heard her small gasp. She knew what she meant. "About making a home outside of the rectory."  
  
He glanced at her, saw her nod. "But I don't want come at night to an empty house. I only want to do it if I can come home to you."  
  
The room was silent and awkward. Paul's heart calmed down, but his stomach was queasy now. He stood up. "I'll go." He began to walk out of the room.  
  
"Wait!" He turned around. Kathleen was standing up, looking slightly disheveled. "Don't go. I still want to talk to you."  
  
They stood for a few seconds, and then Kathleen walked over to him. She touched his cheek. "Do you know what that would mean?"  
  
"Yes." *It means I break my vows to the church, and what could be worst for a priest? And it means you have to get divorced, and that's prohibited for Catholics. We would be pariahs.*  
  
"It's worth it if it's for you," Paul told her. He didn't expect her arms around his neck, or her lips on his. He grinned, and put his arms around her waist. He held her close, his nose buried in her hair.  
  
"My Kathleen," he whispered. "My Kathleen." 


End file.
